


hearts a mess

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 07:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20720444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: It hasn't taken long for Jev's guard to slip. Honestly it should have taken more than a handjob and a fucking Taschen retrospective but apparently not, he can't help himself. Especially when James suggests going to the gym together, a forlorn tone to his voice when he starts talking about Tokyo in the old days and romanticising about cross-fit like it's sex rather than torture.





	hearts a mess

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short-ish ficlet to get my creativity flowing. Inspired by James and Jev hanging out in Barcelona last week.  
Title from the song of the same name by Gotye.

A sound somewhere between pain and pornography escapes James' throat loud enough to cause the businessmen at the adjacent table look up in alarm. Jean-Eric hides his laugh behind his latte, picking up his phone from the table and opening the instagram app, taking a photo of the deep concentration on James' face as he flicks through the pages of the enormous, glossy Helmut Newton retrospective, lingering on the images of semi naked models in heels, as enticing now as when they were taken way back in someone else's lifetime. Jev's mouth waters but inevitably it makes him think of Lorene, a sudden wave of longing and loneliness thrusting itself to the forefront of his mind. 

James looks up and gives him a cheeky smile, a twinkle in his eye reminiscent of other times. 

_ James_. 

James was someone that Jean-Eric had admittedly entirely forgotten about in the whole saga of the past few months, which is why it feels odd to be here in Barcelona with him for testing. Really fucking odd. Like they're both waiting for André to join them, painfully aware that's not going to happen. Jev is trying hard, really he is, to guard himself. Yet Rossiter isn't the sort of person who makes that easy; he's uncomplicated in a way that Jev himself and definitely André, are not. 

It hasn't taken long for Jev's guard to slip. Honestly it should have taken more than a handjob and a fucking Taschen retrospective but apparently not, he can't help himself. Especially when James suggests going to the gym together, a forlorn tone to his voice when he starts talking about Tokyo in the old days and romanticising about cross-fit like it's sex rather than torture. 

Okay, Jean-Eric agrees, he'll come for a work-out. 

When he'd stepped off the plane, Jev had fully prepared to put James back in the box of distrust that houses more people than he'd ever admit to, yet apparently he's grown up a bit since then because it occurs to him, as he's giving his consent (honest to god, why) to let James make his workout into a selection of insta stories (okay, yes he does know why), that he might not just be the only one feeling betrayed here. _ They _ haven't spoken, Jev knows, in the whole summer. He also knows, with a sinking dread, that James is going to end up talking about this to him tonight. It's not as though they can even get drunk and have that as an excuse, instead they're just going to soberly suck each other off and talk about _ André. _Oh fuck. 

James should really just talk to him, Jean-Eric thinks later that afternoon from his position languidly sprawled across the reserve driver's bed. Barcelona is still warm at this time of year and the heat is making him feel especially energy sapped and sated, pleasantly relaxed from his orgasm and the unexpected bonus of James giving him a nice slow fingering while swallowing his cock down. Maybe they should do this more often. He could probably go again after dinner, even. 

The heavy cascade of the shower draws to a halt and moments later James emerges, nicely damp and unashamedly naked. Jev isn't shy about letting his gaze linger, and James' smile widens at the attention. 

Maybe they could just skip the paella. 

"You should really just talk to him," Jev suggests while James is picking out a shirt for dinner from the open suitcase on the floor. It looks as messy as if it's been packed by Charlie, and Jev hides his chuckle lest James thinks he's laughing at the André predicament rather than James' need for a significant other to iron his clothes. Seriously, there are so many laundry services in Monaco. 

"He's being pathetic," James shrugs, "not my issue. Why don't you talk to him?" 

Jean-Eric is damned if he's going to tell James he's not actually currently _ allowed _ to speak to André, because he's not a child and he'll speak to whoever he pleases, but it has all somehow become so suddenly complicated that he kind of does want James' advice. It's difficult to phrase it. He sinks back into the pillows, asking himself why it is that he has to always let his heart get involved, where this sensitive side came from which allows his lovers to draw all his needs to the surface and exploit them, and why he so willingly lets them. 

"We were going to talk in Gordes," he mumbles. 

It isn't strictly true. In fact, he'd gone to Gordes with Nic in tow for the express reason of not wanting to talk to André, not about anything beyond the superficial, not about their relationship and certainly not about Porsche or James. Nic was supposed to be his ally, his back-up. Nic was not supposed to disappear to pick fruit with Takako for an hour and a half while André was right fucking there, barefoot and half-naked in an apron. It hadn't taken much, just as Jean-Éric knows from experience it never does. All he'd needed was a few heated gazes and an arm slung around his shoulder and he'd fallen head first, pushed for it even when André asked if he was sure, the taste of the lager from André's mouth bitter on Jean-Éric's tongue, the craving in his blood stronger than the sense he'd so easily abandoned at the door. 

James raises his eyebrows, his response dirty with innuendo that belies the seriousness in his eyes. He pauses halfway through getting dressed to come and take a seat on the side of the bed, running a finger along Jean-Éric's thigh, making him shiver. "You got told off for fucking him then?" 

"We were supposed to be stopping," Jev confesses, reaching out to slide the palm of his hand up the smooth planes of James' chest. "I promised Lorene." 

"And you told her?" 

He shrugs. He hadn’t exactly told her, hadn’t needed to. 

Oh god, he's totally fucked, isn't he? He wants to leave it at that, let the reasons why he can't possibly talk to André about James' angst and indignance at how André had extricated himself from all their lives without any kind of warning speak for themselves. His deeper concerns feel more valid though and he can't help them from overflowing, spilling from his mouth in between kisses as James pushes him back onto the bed for some lazy making out. If André is the glue holding them all together then what's it going to be like without him, without him there sharing Jev and Lorene's bed, tucking Charlie in at night. What if him and Lorene don’t work properly without André? Which is crazy because it’s not like the man is some kind of keystone to Jean-Éric’s relationship. It’s not as though Jean-Éric is incapable of existing, racing, winning, _fucking _without him. He makes a decision then and there to let James fuck him after dinner and he’ll make damn sure André knows about it, whether he cares or not. 

Yet, there was no Jev and Lorene before André and now, in the _ post-André _phase of his life that he’d naively failed to foresee, he isn’t quite sure how to function normally. 

He wants to be held, if not by André or Lorene, then Rossiter will have to do. 

  


He asks for it later in the evening, when they’ve found their way into the fresh, untouched sheets of the bed in his own hotel room and made a decent attempt at spoiling them. 

James’ arms are strong and his body familiar, it doesn’t even matter that they’re both thinking of someone else. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
